Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons Page 9

  “You’d have to come as my slave, of course,” Hippolyta said, furrowing her brow as if in thought. “That way you’d be safe.”

  “I’m nobody’s slave,” Tithonus said. “I’m a Trojan prince.”

  She shook her head. “Not in your father’s eyes. In his eyes you’re a traitor. And”—she raised her hand, palm out—“I saved your life.” Her voice was as stern as any Amazonian teacher. “By the laws of the gods, your life now belongs to me.”

  He groaned. “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely,” Hippolyta said. “Why should I lie to you?”

  He couldn’t think of an answer. She let him try.

  At last Tithonus whimpered. “But my mother will set me free, won’t she?”

  “I expect so,” Hippolyta agreed, thinking that with any luck their mother would never set eyes on him. A dagger will set you free on Artemis’ altar, she thought, and I will save the Amazon nation with your Trojan blood.

  They trekked northward, away from Troy, and around midday came to a stream, where they drank the clear water gratefully

  Hunger was a hard knot in Hippolyta’s belly. But she’d been hungrier. Amazons trained for such long, foodless treks.

  Tithonus had been complaining about thirst for hours. But suddenly he grabbed on to Hippolyta’s arm, spilling the water from her cupped hands, and pointed.

  About thirty yards upstream an old man had emerged from the trees to water his horse. Apart from a few scraggly gray hairs near the nape of his neck, he was completely bald. His beard was cut so close to his face it was just a dark stubble. He wore a crude smock of ragged sacking tied at the waist with a length of rope.

  “Do you think it’s one of my father’s men searching for me?” Tithonus whispered.

  “Do you think your father cares enough to look for you?” Hippolyta answered, annoyed not to have seen the old man first. “Besides, that old man doesn’t look like a Trojan soldier.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and strode off in the stranger’s direction.

  Tithonus trailed slightly behind.

  The old man was leaning on a wooden staff and chewing on a length of dried meat. When he saw them approach, he didn’t seem alarmed in the least. Up close he seemed an ancient version of a warrior. Old battle scars ran down both his bony arms, and on the left arm he wore a bronze armlet decorated with the image of a dragon. It hung loosely, as if it belonged to a brawnier arm than his.

  Hippolyta halted a few feet from the old man and raised a hand in greeting. “Goddess’s blessings, old one.”

  “Blessings to you, strangers,” he replied in a creaking voice.

  “Old man, we salute your age,” she added. “Sage you must be to have attained so many years.” Indeed he was the oldest person she’d ever seen. “Have you something you could share with two hungry travelers in the name of hospitality?”

  The old man tipped his head in the direction of the stream. “Help yourself to the water, children. It’s provided by the gods.”

  Hippolyta glanced quickly back at the stream, where the horse was lapping placidly. She noticed what she should have seen before. The horse carried a bulging pack on its back. There was a spear and ax tied there as well.

  She looked back at the old man and said with as much humility as she could muster, “It’s food we have need of … sir.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “I think you have enough for yourself and more besides,” Hippolyta said. Her hand went automatically to her belt, before she remembered she had no weapon.

  “That depends upon the length of my journey, eh?” he countered, with a crooked grin.

  Tithonus tugged on the back of Hippolyta’s tunic. She shrugged him off.

  “And how far is that, old man?” Hippolyta asked.

  Tithonus tugged again.

  “As far as Troy, though it’s no business of yours, little girl.”

  She took a step toward him, and Tithonus tugged so hard, she turned on him and hissed like a serpent.

  “Let him be,” Tithonus whispered. “There’s something funny about him.”

  “He’s just a little crazy,” Hippolyta whispered back. “Comes from being that old.”

  Tithonus shook his head. “No, Hippolyta. It’s more than that. Look at his eyes. They aren’t an old man’s eyes.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” she said, and turned back.

  But now she saw what Tithonus had seen. The old man’s eyes had the kind of fiery intensity to them that suddenly reminded her of the bonfires on Amazon hilltops, lit to warn of an approaching enemy. Maybe, she thought, I should go more slowly here.

  The old man smiled at her. There was a gap between his teeth, as big, she thought, as the entrance to the Underworld.

  “Why do you carry weapons, sir?” she asked.

  “I have fought many battles in my day,” he answered. “Battle has been my food and drink.” He smacked his lips loudly. “But as I have no further use for this equipment, I’m taking the tools of my former trade to sell at the market in Troy.”

  “Will you sell them to me?” Hippolyta asked quickly.

  He laughed, a harsh, dry sound, like the cawing of a crow. “Of course not. You’re only a girl.”

  She drew herself up. “I’m an Amazon,” she said. “A match for any warrior you’ve ever encountered.”

  The old man stroked his chin. “I’ve met quite a few warriors, my dear. Cadmus. Pelops. Erechtheus. Heroes, all.”

  Tiring of the game, Hippolyta said, “And you were what—their cup bearer?”

  Tithonus gasped aloud.

  “You’ve got a sharp tongue, young Amazon.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “A sharp tongue but no sharp sword. Who took it from you, I wonder.”

  Hippolyta bristled and took an angry step forward.

  The old man twirled his staff end over end so quickly it would have cracked her across the face had she moved another inch. Hippolyta was shocked at his speed.

  “If,” the old man said, sounding remarkably like one of her teachers, “if you were the warrior you think you are, you’d never let your anger lead you into an ambush. Or your hunger into a situation you couldn’t control.”

  It was Tithonus who broke the stalemate. He bowed to the old warrior. “Please, sir, might we purchase some food from you?”

  The old man laughed and placed the staff end down on the ground. “This one at least has manners.”

  Hippolyta let out a long breath, astonished that she’d been holding it.

  “But what have you to offer in payment?” the old man asked Tithonus.

  The boy slipped a cord from his neck. Tied to it was an amulet with a red jewel in the center. “My father gave this to me to celebrate my birthday.” He offered it to the old man.

  Holding the jewel up to the light, the old warrior smiled. “Wealthy man, is he?”

  “He’s—”

  Hippolyta elbowed Tithonus before he could reveal his parentage. “His father isn’t here now. We are. That’s a truly valuable jewel. We want food—and the weapons.”

  “The weapons too!” the old man exclaimed in amusement. “Next you’ll be asking for the horse as well.” He handed the jewel back to Tithonus.

  “Why not?” Hippolyta said. “You won’t need him if he’s got nothing to carry.”

  The old man chuckled. “He’s more use to me than some ornament.”

  “Will you trade or won’t you?” Hippolyta said impatiently, her voice rising.

  “And if I don’t? Will you try to take them from me?”

  The scorn in his voice goaded Hippolyta beyond endurance. “Do you think I can’t?” she cried, lunging at him.

  The old man jabbed the end of his staff into her stomach, stopping her in her tracks. “If you’re going to challenge me, child, you’ll need something to fight with,” he said, nodding toward the trees, where Hippolyta saw another staff was lying.

  “Where did that come from?” Tithonus asked wonderingly.r />
  For a second the old man glanced his way. “Perhaps from the gods, boy.”

  “More likely you dropped it along the way from sheer carelessness,” Hippolyta said.

  The old man shrugged. “How it got there doesn’t matter. Either way, will you try your skill against an ancient warrior or not?”

  “If I win, you’ll give us the horse and all it carries?” Hippolyta asked.

  The old man squeezed his lower lip between two fingers. “You drive a hard bargain, young Amazon. Well, so do I. If you lose, you must carry my baggage all the way to Troy for me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m no beast of burden,” she cried.

  “Nevertheless, those are my terms,” he said. “Are you afraid to accept them?”

  “Afraid? Never! An Amazon is not afraid of anything. Not even death. Especially not death.” As she spoke, she remembered her fear of the evening before. Of the serpent’s awful head, of the panicked run into the farmyard, the jump into the well. Then, awash in battle fire, she forgot all fear, strode to where the second staff lay on the ground, and snatched it up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE FIRE OF COMBAT

  “BE CAREFUL,” TITHONUS WHISPERED BEHIND her.

  The concern in his voice irked Hippolyta so much she pushed him aside rudely. Then she walked back to where the old warrior stood and planted herself firmly in front of him.

  “Now, old man,” she said, “that we’re both armed, perhaps you will treat me with respect.”

  He chuckled, a sound like rushing water over stone. Little water. Large stone. “All you need to do is knock me down to win, Amazon.” The way he said the last word was not a compliment. “Then you will have proved yourself worthy of me.”

  “Worthy of you?” Hippolyta felt her cheeks flushing. Yet she willed herself to be calm, counting silently as she’d been taught. Taunting one’s opponent was always the opening gambit of any fight. If the old man really had been a warrior, he would know that well. “You think a lot of yourself.”

  “With good reason,” the old man said softly.

  Then, with a sudden movement, he twisted his arm, and his staff lashed out at Hippolyta’s face.

  She jumped back and felt the wood just brush her nose. “You’re slow, old man.” Holding her own staff horizontally, she fell into a crouch, ready to ward off another blow.

  He stepped back and leaned casually on his staff, then picked at his yellow teeth with a casual finger. “That dried venison is so sticky,” he remarked.

  The hunger knot in Hippolyta’s stomach tightened at the mention of food, and she launched a swift counterattack with the point of her staff. The old man effortlessly beat her attack aside with his own staff, then whacked her across the back as she fell forward. She landed flat on her face.

  “Beaten already, eh?” he cried.

  Hippolyta leaped to her feet and spat dirt from her mouth.

  “I may be an old dog,” he said, “but I still have plenty of tricks.”

  Some trick, Hippolyta thought, but she filed it away in her head for another fight. She let her head hang down as if she were indeed beaten, then charged again without looking.

  Once more the old man sidestepped her attack, smacking her across her rear as she went by him. But this time he almost missed.

  Hippolyta turned and stood glaring at him, panting, flushed partly with rage and partly with hope.

  “You’re like an angry dog snapping at chariot wheels,” the old man said, this time less like a teacher and more like a smug young fighter. “You don’t expect me to stand here and let you hit me?”

  Then, without warning, he came at her fast as a viper striking from the undergrowth. His staff jabbed and poked; it swatted and swung with such energy and accuracy Hippolyta backed off as fast as she could. She kept swinging her staff from side to side, trying to protect herself. Finally, she stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell backward onto the ground.

  Tithonus rushed toward her, and she waved him off, angrily.

  Meanwhile the old man turned his back on her and walked over to the river. He knelt and splashed water on his face, then stood up again.

  “Frankly,” he said turning around, “I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have more spirit.”

  Getting up, Hippolyta said, “I’ve plenty of spirit.” She no longer addressed him as old man. He hadn’t seemed very old when he was attacking.

  “Oh, you’ve got anger enough,” the warrior conceded. “But you don’t know what to do with it. Fire is your friend when it lights your way. It is your friend when it keeps you warm. But if it burns your house down, what use is it to you?”

  “Riddles!” Hippolyta said. She spat to one side, to show her disdain, though her mouth was dry as dust.

  “I know what he means—” Tithonus began, stopping when Hippolyta glared at him.

  “Your riddles won’t protect you,” Hippolyta snapped. She understood without Tithonus’ help what the old man meant. She’d been reckless in her attacks, letting her anger drive her. She’d been too eager to strike him down without sizing him up first, without remembering all her fighting techniques.

  She rehearsed them in her head: Don’t let your guard down. Probe your opponent for weaknesses. Watch how he moves. How could she have forgotten?

  When she closed with the old warrior this time, she watched with care, calculating the way he used his staff. She checked his feet out of the corner of her eyes.

  There! He took a step forward, signaling an attack.

  Now she could sidestep his thrust.

  Whack! She struck him a glancing blow across his bony shoulder.

  He hopped away, grimacing.

  “That must have hurt,” she said. “Old bones have little padding.”

  He flashed her a fierce grin. “That’s better, girl. Now we’ll really test your mettle.”

  He came at her faster than she expected. She blocked high, but he swept his staff low and scooped her feet out from under her. She landed hard on her bottom but leaped up again before the pain could keep her down, aiming a blow at his head, then his knee, then his belly. Not one of the blows connected, but the attack was furious enough to get him to retreat, huffing and puffing, like an old boar in a fight for its life.

  “There!” he cried out. “Now your blood is flowing, like a river in spate. And you’re finally using your speed and your strength, instead of simply squandering them.”

  Their staffs cracked together, again and again.

  Hippolyta had risen above her anger. She was high on battle fever, using it to fuel her ferocity and drive herself on. She repeated the moves she’d practiced since she was a little girl. But now she was putting a passion into each strike that she’d never had before.

  An Amazon battle cry burst from her lips. “Aeeeeeeiiiiiii!”

  And then she was whipping the staff around the old man like lightning in a summer storm. At last she cracked him across the bald skull, and he toppled like a felled tree.

  At once the battle fury left her, and she stood, panting, waiting for him to rise.

  Tithonus knelt over the old man.

  “Is he—” Hippolyta whispered, “is he alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Tithonus said, looking up at her. “But I can’t see a mark on him.”

  Just then the ancient sat up and rubbed his head. “That was good,” he said, oblivious of the boy’s astonished face. “Very good.” He found his staff and used it to stand.

  Tithonus stepped away, but Hippolyta held her staff ready. She had no energy left, though. She wondered if she could fight any longer.

  The old man looked at her. “Took you awhile, girl.” His head nodded up and down, like some sort of addled stork. “But in the end you fought like a warrior. Take your reward, but don’t forget the lesson that comes with it.” He started off into the woodland.

  “Sir,” Hippolyta called after him, “you haven’t told me your name.”

  The old man turned back slowly.
For a long moment he seemed to be studying Hippolyta’s face, as if memorizing it. “I’ll tell you that next time we meet,” he called. “But I will tell you this, turn east and north that way”—he pointed—“and you will get home a lot more quickly than you came to Troy.” Then he grinned broadly, walked into the trees, and disappeared.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THEMISCYRA

  HIPPOLYTA DISMISSED THE OLD man from her mind and started ripping open the pack. Inside were loaves of bread, cheeses, strips of dried meat, fruits and berries, and a skinful of wine.

  “He must have quite an appetite for someone so skinny,” she mused, biting into a handful of figs.

  “I don’t like it,” said Tithonus. “He gave all this up too easily.”

  “Easy for you,” said Hippolyta, rubbing her bruises. “I paid quite a price.”

  She tossed Tithonus a loaf of bread, and his hunger immediately overcame his curiosity. Having silenced him as she intended, Hippolyta examined the horse and discovered something tucked under the pack, a double-headed ax. She pulled it out and saw that it was identical in every way to the kind used by the Amazons.

  “That’ll come in handy,” said Tithonus. “We can chop wood for a campfire tonight.”

  “It’s handy for a lot more than that,” Hippolyta said.

  She turned the ax over in her hand, examining it from every angle. If not for the fact that it was impossible, she could have sworn this was the very same ax she had taken with her from Themiscyra.

  Once they had eaten their fill, Hippolyta vaulted onto the horse’s back and took hold of the reins. Tithonus gaped at her as if she had just turned a somersault and landed feetfirst on top of a tree.

  “Come on,” she said, waving him forward. “You’re not planning to walk all the way, are you?”

  “You mean, we’re going to sit up there? But we’ll just fall off.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve been riding on horseback since I was younger than you.”

  “Well, that’s all very well for a barbarian, but civilized people ride in chariots.”

  “I know one civilized person who’s going to be trampled under these hooves if he doesn’t get over here,” Hippolyta said.